Sylvia

 My mum died in August, she was 92. That’s truly a long life. She was ready to go. She’d been in a lot of pain for a couple of years so it was a merciful release. 70 years is a long time to have your mum in your life. So this Christmas will be the first one that I won’t talk to her. Much to my sisters’ annoyance I was her favourite. She always denied that, but I know I was her favourite. I was always her little boy, right up to the day she died, and her little boy was with her to the end. I watched as she drew her last breath and peacefully slipped away.

Even though I was her little boy we used to have quite vigorous discussions, sometimes bordering on the edge of arguments, and I have to say I lost it the day she told me she’d voted for brexit. Mother, I always called her that, came from a long line of puritanical bigots. Staunch chapel folk who never let their ‘Christianity’ interfere with their judgemental bigotry. Respectable English middle class white people who believed in hard work and a lifestyle not too comfortable or ostentatious. Of course the family wasn’t really English because a generation or so prior to my granddad's, the family had come from Scotland. Grandad also married a Scots woman, my Nana. I’ve really worked hard to break the bigotry chain. I hope I've succeeded. I now tend to use that trait as a source of humour or making a point.

I do have a lot to thank mother for I led a reasonably nice life thanks to her. Before I was born she had worked in a music/record shop, Harper’ in Bury St Edmunds, she absolutely adored music. Something I inherited from her. She could play the piano. Her parents had owned a baby grand piano. She had lessons when she was old enough. Her and her brothers also slept under it during the war apparently. Working in the music shop enabled her to build up quite a collection, for the fifties, of records. Music was so often on in our house, either records or the radio. We didn’t have a telly until I was about five. Mum was always quite creative and certainly helped and encouraged me with my drawing and painting. Her father, having filled my head with stories of his travels when in the navy, this  fuelled my desire to travel. It was my mother who paid for me to go on two educational cruises in the Mediterranean when I was at secondary school. It added so much to my life. 

My dad was never happy about it but mum went out to work once my youngest sister went to school. I by default, being the eldest child,  took on some responsibilities. I walked to school with my youngest sister and spent the first year when she was at school having school dinners with the infants to be with and look after her. During the school holidays I was responsible for seeing that we had our lunch. To begin with Mum would make something for me to heat up, but later I would actually part prepare or totally prepare a simple meal. Mum taught me to cook, which I’m very grateful for. Mum worked really hard, mostly in food factories, and it enabled us to have a comfortable lifestyle. Again something I am very grateful for.

Later when I was first married she would provide foodstuffs from the factory shop she worked at for us. Then when my marriage broke up her and her husband gave me a roof over my head for a few months. When she was widowed and I was a bit better off I did try and repay her whenever I could. She was however a stubborn old bugger (another family trait)  and certainly refused to be helped on occasions when she really needed it.

She died in hospital but had spent her final four weeks prior to that in a care home. She never wanted to be ‘any trouble’, but of course by being like she was, it did actually cause trouble. Unfortunately I’m a bit like that too.

We were never a hugging or kissing family, which is why I find social affection difficult. I did however kiss her forehead and told her I loved her the day before she died. 

Me and mum

War is ignorance

I’ve been a pacifist all of my adult life. How could anyone not be? I will never understand. The taking of someone’s life is morally indefensible. Wars are rich mens’ games. Rich men play, and poor men, women and children die. Rich men invent tribalist and sectarian nonsense to trick poor men into fighting their battles. Patriotism is a con. It’s a fabrication. Patriots are fools. And don’t get me started on the Red Poppy Fascists! When the British Legion campaigns against war I will wear a red poppy. Not until.

War serves no purpose but to make rich men richer

War is ignorance
War is evil
War is hate
War is grotesque
War is pointless
War is stupidity
War is waste

Dead
Bodies
Vile
Vile bodies

No one wins in war

Civilians die in wars
Children die in wars
Pets die in wars
You could die in a war
Private C Read died in a war.

"War is over if you want it"

Wars can only ever end with peace
Peace, peace is the only way forward

My dad loved his life!

I’ve never really understood the point of funerals. I’ve always questioned the need for them. Much to most people’s bemusement. And please don’t tell me that it is about saying goodbye because it is not as the deceased is long gone. I’ve also never understood the need to worship the dead like so many people do. By worshipping the dead I mean the very existence of a grave and the tending there of. Or, the laying of flowers at a roadside, or where people have fallen. What is that all about?

I think that it is about people being in denial. Denial that their loved one has died and denial about their own mortality. Most people can’t seem to grasp the concept that death is final. They are desperate to believe that there is more. Now I can’t prove that there isn’t more, the same way that I can’t prove that there isn’t a large blue elephant with pink spots floating around on a fluffy cumulonimbus, but given that there is no evidence for either, both would seem highly unlikely.

The trouble is that most people tend to become highly emotional around death and rational thinking goes out of the window. Questioning the necessity for a certain type of funeral or a funeral at all would seem like a pointless exercise.

We buried my father yesterday. He died on 10th March as a result of a heart attack he’d had two days before. It was a CofE funeral and a burial beside the village church. Not what I would have chosen but they were his wishes. I was asked if I would like to read a lesson. I declined but said I would be happy to say a few words. Which indeed I did. I thought I would share those words with you:

In many ways father and I were like chalk and cheese. He was a very practical man, good with his hands and could turn his hands to most things. I am a DIY numpty. He loved sport, whilst I can’t abide it. He accepted tradition and superstition and I challenge it. But, stood together there was never any doubt that we were father and son. We had the same boyish good looks. We both had the large Garrard ears or lugholes as he would have said. We shared mannerisms and both had the same laugh. In fact it is the laugh I am most grateful for, because it was from father that I inherited my wonderful sense of humour. He gave me the ability to laugh at the most ridiculous things, and to see the funny side in much of everyday life. Father could tell a good story as well. Much better than I could ever hope to. As kids we would always be laughing about something with dad. There was always laughter in our house.

Growing up he rarely called me Paul it was either boy or the slightly enigmatic Lard-head. These were terms of endearment that I happily answered to.

I have so many nice childhood memories involving dad that it’s hard to single one out. The Christmas I received a Scalextric set was one of note. I’m not sure who derived the most pleasure from it. The track took root on the dining table and we would spend hours racing against each other, both of us equally excited and enthusiastic. One big kid and one little kid. Kids in their element.

Father was never prolific in telling us off. I remember in my teenage years the first time that I came home rather the worse for drink. Rather than scold me he laughed. He knew that I was learning the hard way. He was shrewd enough to know that a life lesson has more effect on a teenager than the words of a parent. And he laughed again.

I remember father was always very keen on swimming and despite my general disinterested in sport it was something that we had done together both in my childhood and then later when three generations of the Garrards went to the pool; Dad, myself and my son.

Something else that we had in common was our love of good ale. I treasure the memories of the few beer festivals that we attended together. Both as eager as the other to try something new.

Now fast forward to January of this year. He was so happy the day he reached his eightieth birthday. To him it seemed like a major achievement. And indeed it was. A few weeks prior to his birthday he had said to me in quite an earnest but enthusiastic way “You know, I like my life. I really enjoy it”. I was well moved. Here was a man whose body had been ravaged by HD and still he was happy with his life. I think it was the most inspiring thing that he had ever said to me. I certainly won’t forget it. It is the overriding memory that I shall carry with me always. My dad loved his life!